Pain Or Pleasure
by DJLemmiex
Summary: The meaning of Sex? What is it? Rev!USUK. Rated M for Smut, Slight Rape. You have been warned. Already know this isn't that good but Damn I wanted to finish it.


**A/N: Hey guys. Now a little information is needed on this story. It's been with me for over 2 years now. I had been writing on it for two years. Now obviously not every day for two years but all the time taken has been long hours some nights to one line a week. ANYWAY! I want to explain that this is the reason why it's not very good grammatically at the beginning as it was written when I was still in my 9th year of education. I am now on my graduating year and soon to be doing my Exams.**

**So with much not to do I would like you to please review this story, or at least try and make it the whole way through. As it is one of my longest pieces of work and I did really try my best on it. Many a time I have thought about leaving it and deleting it but with pain or pleasure, well the title says it all. It was a Pain and a Pleasure to write. :) So please enjoy two years of work.**

**Disclaimer: FanFiction. Obviously not mine. All rights belong to the original Author.**

Sex ... pain or pleasure?

~.~.~.~.~.~. Pain or Pleasure USUK .~.~.~.~.~.~

_Pain ... It hurts ... It hurts more than you think you know. It's not like a blue purple bruise or a small blood red cut ... no ... It's more like ... like ... hard to describe such a pain, a pain that makes you scream in anger, weep in sorrow. A pain that could make death cry ... it's much worse than death, this ever so painful pain laughs at the bony face of death... this pain is torture, slow, merciless, cold-hearted, torture. Pain is knifes slicing the skin of the innocent children being mauled before your very eyes. Pain is your heart being ripped from your ribcage, blood pouring from the hole left. Pain is when your face is forced roughly up to watch that red beating heart be eaten my vicious mongrels. Pain is when the hell hole called torture that doesn't end, when it carries on abusing your poor slender body ... forever._

~.~.~.~.~.~. Pain or Pleasure USUK .~.~.~.~.~.~

England looked at the taller blonde nation. He stood there, straight and proud in his blue uniform, the rain pounding down onto his hair, the forever standing flick in his hair bounced as rain drops plummeted towards the earth. His face held on expression ... determination ... he wanted out and England knew it. England also knew no matter how much he tried he couldn't stop the strong blonde from deserting him and he knew what the impact would leave on the poor brit.

But he still fought, this was his child, the one he cared for, the one he wanted to protect from the never ending and treacherous dangers out in the big wide and unexplored world. This was his little brother ... His wonderful little brother. How could he let this boy go out into the wild world of danger and pain ... so much pain ... a pain that would surely be the death of the kid ... and that death would also kill Britannia, England would be crushed, crushed further to hell until the fiery pit burn his flesh and demons were released on the innocent, unsuspecting citizens of Britain.

And still...

That child had won. That one innocent child had beaten the most feared person in the world. That child managed to cause a pain so unspeakably horrifying, it could hurt a great nation. Innocence had beaten England into the dirt. England knew how he did it. He had gone straight for the red beating heart of the nation, the weakest part of England ... and he crushed it. He crushed it till there was none left. His blood ran cold and still within his body those once blue sky eyes were now blocks of ice that could never melt. How could the child he care for do this to him? What did he do to deserve this war? Why must it end like this?

Yes ... why? All the questions always started with a why. Why was that? Why did there have to be questions? Why couldn't things have stayed the same? All these questions were running through the brit's head, tears finally started to descend from his sad green eyes. He knew he had lost this terrible battle and yet he still couldn't let go of that once bubbly child he raised.

England let his head fall into his hand. A choking noise fled from his gentle lips as he could not contain the tears that hurt anymore. His knees gave way as he tumbled into the thick oozy brown mud that splattered carelessly onto his white trousers. Time was moving on without him, he was quickly being forgotten into the abysses called the past. Why was this? Why was he being left behind? Would anyone save him? Why was this happening? Why was he standing there looking down upon the broken nation? Why didn't he leave? Why stay and mock the person he broke? The kid stood there ... motionless. As still as the night that darkened the day away, as cold as the ice that surrounded the north, the boy said one line. One line that could kill anyone till hell ate at them with its flames of torture.

England's thoughts were interrupted by this line, one line that could set off a million questions on a race. The line was harsh, the line was cold, the line was spoken by the boy ... no wait ... man, the man who's name made England hold his breath. He spoke without a whisper but it wasn't a shout. This line sent shivers through the fallen body of the once great empire.

"England ... you used to be so ... big "

That line took his breath and ripped it into millions of shreds. Life was sucked out of him until he was fully dry. Life couldn't throw anything at him anymore because he had already felt the worst pain of all, the pain of being abandon.

England didn't know how long he had been sobbing in the mud, had it been hours, days or months? Time didn't seem to matter anymore; all that ran through his confused mind was the words of that man.

That man ... yes he was a man. A man that, England, saw as a younger brother. This man that had the most beautiful sea coloured eyes that could send diamonds to shame. This man, with the hay coloured, hair with that oh so familiar flick. The man that wore a blue battle suit covered thick with mud and blood, the blood of British soldiers, the blood of his own soldiers and the blood of the crying brit that was knelt before him, like a servant to his king. He was also the man that England had fallen for. The man that had stole his heart and rubbed it in his crying and defeated face. He could see it now, his poor crippled heart, lying face down in the oozy thick brown mud. Why did it hurt so much? What was this feeling that over threw his body, shattering it like china until it was dust? Was this what they called heart break?

England slowly looked up into the blue seas that were cold with hatred. The tears streaming down his face like rivers were being covered by the rain that thrashed down upon his limp thin face. There was not anger in his eyes, how could he be angry? He had hurt someone very important to him. No sadness. Sadness over ruled the blocks of ice, melting away at their cold structure. Why was he still standing here? Did he like the look of the fallen nation?

As if a trigger from his thoughts the young man span around, the mud sliding under his feet like he was god. He stood there for awhile, more like days to the broken nation but no it was only a short moment. Then one painful step after another he walked away. He walked away from England.

~.~.~.~.~.~. Pain or Pleasure USUK .~.~.~.~.~.~

One man sat under a tree watched the whole scene unfold like a picture book. His sunshine blonde locks we held back by a blue silk ribbon as his blue glass-like eyes gazed across the final scene of this movie-like war. A frown grew across his thin face and his blue eyes dulled slightly with sorrow. He looked down as the young American man turned from the weeping figure and walked away from his precious friend. He watched the American boy leave until he was a tiny speck in the distance, being engulfed into the rain.

It was time to make his move.

Standing up gracefully the blonde man danced his way over to the broken nation. The mud groaned under his feet as he approached the young, sobbing blond. The rain is now pouring harder and harder upon the nations in the rain. The mood was miserable; foul, like a storm was brewing in England's heart. The long haired blonde knew that back in England it was raining, it always would, always will ... because England was always hurting; his heart was always full of sadness. The blue eyed man knew this very well, he could use this to his advantage. His dearest friend drew nearer and nearer with each fatal step. His heart started to pound within his chest as he could see the fallen nation crying. Could he really do this? The rain pounded down upon is blonde locks making them darken. His white boots were turning brown with every inch as he beckoned closer to the shaggy blonde haired man. England sat there silent; his head still in his hand to muffle is sobs. How could he let this happen? He was so deep in thought that he didn't notice the other blonde strode towards him.

"Angleterre ..." A French accent loomed over the lips of the long locked blonde.

England looked up. His eyes were red and his face was tear-stained due to the mountains of tears that broke through his guards and waterfall down his pale cheeks. His eyes showed no life, as if they died in the last tense 10 minutes. The green orbs just stared into the blue ones above him. They stayed like this for god knows how long, it was only sort moments but to them if felt like eternity. The poor Frenchman couldn't take it any longer, he couldn't look into those lifeless green eyes in fear that he would soon become like that. So instead he slowly knelt into the thick oozy mud, staining his crystal white trousers. His dainty hands stretched out and found his way to the brits slouched shoulders, his nimble finders gripping slightly into the red cloth of the brits uniform. The brit just kept staring at him. His eyes flickered from the blue eyes to the dainty hands over and over again. The Frenchman hated the face before him. This face was meant for beauty only. It was meant for happiness; joy, not for being splattered with mud; frowning and crying until there was no salty liquid left to spill. The Frenchman smiled down at England, a warm and genuine smile. The English man stared. The smile ... it was kind. It was a smile coming from the man that helped the American leave. The man he hated. The man who wanted to get into the brits pants. Well so people thought. England knew he had to get up out of the mud, he knew what the man's real motive was but he yet couldn't help and asks the Frenchman this one question. A question that was always asked when the Frenchman showed kindness towards him. He didn't love the Frenchman, but he did have this feeling for him. He knew that no matter how much they fought and quarrelled, the French basterd would always help him out if needed. So the question that always made the Frenchman smile was popped yet again.

"France ... What do you want?" England's voice was barley over a whisper.

"Angleterre ... let's get you out of this cold field and into a warm lounge somewhere" The man called France smiled, the rain dripping down his slim cheeks. His hand lay down just above the brits eyes, wanting to lift him up from the mud. "Come on Angleterre, I won't bite ... much" The Frenchman winked at him. England could feel his lips twitch, itching to smirk back at the perverted nation, he wanted to so badly tell him how wrong he was ... so he did.  
"You expect me to believe you frog? "

"No mon ami ..."

"You know me to well" The brit sighed and decided it was high time to get up off his knees and save what pride he had left writhing his worn down body. He lifted himself from the brown ground, squelching noises' rang into his ears and the slop moved beneath him. He managed a small smile at the Frenchman. France smiled back, apologetically. He wanted to comfort his old friend so bad. Sure their past wasn't all fine and dandy but damn he still cared for the brit. England had always helped him when he was in a pickle so it was his duty to help his friend back. Though he would never consider calling England a friend out loud but England knew that France saw him as a friend. England also saw the French man as a friend. Sad but true. He was always there for him and vice versa ... but ... France helped him get away. Helped his little brother escape his clutches and out into the big bad world. He helped drive them as far apart as they could. Why? Just so he could get into the brits pants?

France saw the change in the brits mood. He knew what was coming next. Sighing he looked dead into the brits eyes.

"Mon Ami ... I am sorry."

"Don't be frog. You did what you thought was right but please tell me... Was I such a bad brother to the boy? Did you think I was that bad? You helped him leave so you must really think that." Tear's threatened to fall again from his green eyes.

"England ..." France put a hand to the younger nation's shoulder, only to have it shrugged off. "England ... please ... mon ami ... you need to go back to the hotel and get some sleep. Please ... You look so tired"

"Oh shut up France. If I go back with you I would most likely end up being raped or something. I know you just want to get into my pants" The English man retorted. His hands balled into fists as he tried to keep his temper to a minimum. He turned away to the other blonde, his breath coming in pants from his sudden outburst. He needed to get away, away from this dark field, away from the company of France. He wanted to be alone. To think without voices that would only send him into confusion. He needed to clear his head.

France could only sigh. There was no changing England's mind now. He just hoped that England knew what he was doing because things could happen now. England was the defeated enemy. He was weak towards the American's now. They would take advantage and know no better.

"As you wish Mon Ami ... just promise me you won't drink and that you will return safe to the hotel." France's eyes dulled some more. As a short whisper, retorted to him.

"I can't promise anything France." And he was gone. England walked off into the distance leaving the poor, drenched Frenchman alone in the rain.

~.~.~.~.~.~. Pain or Pleasure USUK .~.~.~.~.~.~

America couldn't believe it. It had really happened, he was finally free. Freedom at last ... America chuckled. Freedom was like Marmite, you like it or you hate it. Even though America hated marmite he loved this new freedom. His smile faded at the last part though ... hate it ... England probably wasn't happy. The memories of the battle field raced through his mind, appearing before his eyes like torture weapons. England looking dead before him, his selfishness did that. America shook his head of the saddening thoughts that brought pain to his breaking heart. He walked through the empty house he had been living in. It was so quiet in the house, so cold and deserted like a prison, once in your unable to ever come back to the sweet fresh air. America walked through the old okay door. England had made that ... to be precise England had built the whole house, right from the last roof panel to the very first brick.

Paintings of memories hung on the old oak walls; either side was covered head to toe with memories of joy and laughter. America walked down the corridors, studying the memories one by one. His heart tightened harder and harder. America kept his glance up, his eyes widen and water when he sees the final portrait. That day hits him like a thunderstorm on a full rampage. America took in every detail of the picture. It's golden like frame, detailed with roses winding up the sides. The painting itself was of England and of America himself, they were happy ... smiling like there was no tomorrow ... the painting was created a couple of weeks before the war. The happiness of that day was like poison; eating away of the nations flesh. Questions flew about in the Americans head, hitting the sides of his brain like daggers. What did he just do? He lost it! England would never smile at him again! He's lost all his happiness. Why? So he didn't have to pay some stupid tax? America could admit he was shocked England had brought on the taxes but was this really needed? Independence... America was starting to regret everything. Oh how he wanted to run back and just hug the broken nation. Pet his hair and whisper comforting words into his ear. Telling him nothing had changed ... but there was no point in that now. England had probably left.

America remembered watching France as he left. How the Frenchman walked over to _his_ England. Why did France help him? So he could get in England's pants? Sick basterd. America swore if that was the case the Frenchman wouldn't live another second. Oh wait ... What if England wanted it? What England accepted it? Did he really hurt him that bad that he would go that low? America looked back to the painting. It mocked him more with the happy smiles of the two nations. There you could see clearly a bond. What was there now? Nothing? Oh god what is this pain that ran through the American?

Then it dawned on him. Everything finally sank into Americas head. He had lost everything he loved.

Americas hand suddenly clutches his heart in pain as the tears that treated to appear finally entered the new world and drop lifelessly to the floor. The first tears dropped onto the new independent land. His knees gave way beneath him. His knees started to feel pain. Which soon dulled as fresh memories pierced his heart, creating holes without meaning. He clutched his heart harder as his cries became louder and louder, begging for the small nation that was England to come back. He wanted to tell him he was sorry and wrong for doing this ... but this was freedom. And soon you have to lose some to gain some.

America didn't know how long he had been crying on the floor, how much time had he wasted here? All he knew is that there was no point in wasting more. What to do now? Independent. That was his nation. Freedom. That was him. America chuckled inwardly at himself. All this freedom and he was still clueless. Maybe he was still a child after all. Even so America still got to his feet and walked out that front door for a long and peaceful walk.

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His insides burned. It was so painful. His body ached all over and a pain like to other raced down his spine. How could he let this happen to himself? He was the almighty Britannia! He was the mother of this country, this country of now independence. Yet here he was, led on the cold ally floor, continued being pounded and thrust into by the drunken American man above him. His eyes closed tight shut he took every thrust like it was the first. Tears made its way through the soft flesh doors and continued their path down soft swollen cheeks. The burning through his body was painful. So painful. This nightmare wasn't going to end. It was going on forever and ever. He was being violated and stretched more and more with each thrust of the stranger's hips.

Delicate hands gripped and clawed at the floor, wanting it to all end, the pain, it wouldn't stop. The man pushed deeper and deeper in his tight colon with ever painful thrust. His breathing was ragged and his eyes blurry from the threatening tears that wanted to escape the green prison. His back ached from arching away from the drunken stranger, his head pounding from the disgusting thoughts in his head. How long had he been like this? How did he end up like this? He couldn't remember. He wanted it to end. He wanted it to stop so badly. Heck he would of preferred it was France than this. Eyes widen to an incredible width as England felt the hot white liquid or the stranger shoot straight up into his cavern. Filling him completely with the other mans semen. The man slumped against the nation, tired and panting, not bothering to pull out just yet. England just sat there. No tears were needed. No point. Not anymore. There was no way this could get any worse so there was no point ... or ... England couldn't cry ... he deeply wanted to but the tears wouldn't appear, he wanted to show he was hurt, that he felt like shit but ... the tears wouldn't come. Why? Did he already use them up, like there is some daily amount of crying one person could do?

England could feel the oozy liquid drip from his ass and onto the cold floor. He could feel the filth inside of his start to drain away. He wasn't happy but he wasn't sad. He just wanted this day to end and to never come back. He just wanted to leave this land that cursed him with eternal sorrow. He didn't know how long he'd been in his ally. He slowly closed his eyes. He was tired but not sleepy. Hours could of past for all he know. But after what seemed like eternity the weight shifted. He could feel the heat of the body and the heavy Drunkard disappears from his chest. He couldn't help the sigh of relief that swept over his lips. He didn't bother opening his eyes, even when he felt himself being lifted up into a man's arms, what's the point? It was probably some American who would take advantage of him again. England could feel the tiredness and exhaustion start to kick into his body, his limbs started to go limp, his head rested against the broader chest of the stranger carrying him, until he fell into a deep and nightmarish sleep.

~.~.~.~.~.~. Pain or Pleasure USUK .~.~.~.~.~.~

America couldn't believe his eyes. He only planned to go on a small walk, a walk to clear his head of the agonisingly painful thoughts of England. But here he was. Staring down the dark narrow alleyway and looking at the lifeless body before him. That lifeless body was crushed between a wall and the body of an American Soldier. America knew who it was. Of course he knew. As soon as he saw the golden ruffled blonde hair, and unusually thick eyebrows, he knew right off it was England. England ... Why is he here? Why is he the one withering on the floor? He looked so ... so ... small. America chest started to throb more and more as he looked down and his former guardian, trying to figure what happened to him. He was led there, not moving the slightest. His shirt and red jacket was ripped, buttons spread in various places. His white trousers we crumpled on the other side of the alleyway, covered in mud and ... blood. America gulped hard. The sight was horrible. The blood and mud ... the body of some America solider spread all over his England ... it made his blood boil. How dare that man. His fist started to clench and unclench, his breathing becoming heavy, his brain trying to control the anger within him. He closed his eyes trying to control his temper a bit more.

He needed to get his England away from this. He didn't want to look at this site no more. Not the sight of some other mans cock inside of his England. America started to move closer to the two bodies, trying to be as quiet as possible. His eyes started to become mixed with emotions, worry and anger being the main two. Anger for the man who done this, worry for his England who wasn't moving one bit. As he near England though he started to sigh silently in relief. He was breathing. Carefully, America shoved the offending basterd that led on top of England, hearing a quiet sigh from the blonde man. Careful America wrapped his arm under the British man's leg and the other around his back, trying his best not to cause any discomfort to England, picking up the smaller blonde bridal style. America turned on his heels, turning from the man who violated his England. As much as America wanted to kill this man, he didn't have time. No time would be wasted now. He wanted England off the streets. Now. With that in thought the young independent country took his first step out into the street, luckily it was already dark and most people were not out and about, so no one would be staring at his England. No one would be making his England uncomfortable, no one...

The streets were dark and cold, chilling anyone to the bone, America walked hastily down the narrow streets and alleyways, remembering certain shortcuts to his cosy home, the one him and his England used to share. Yeah used to ... America's heart was beginning to hurt again deep within his chest. He tried to block this pain as much as he could, forcing the happy memories away and concentrating on the matter at hand. Footstep after footstep brought the American closer and closer to his home. He was getting closer to putting England in comfort, making the Englishman feel better... but ... what if England didn't want to see him? What if England got mad because he had left the poor nation? America shook his head again. He had to think positive. Maybe England wouldn't be that mad. After all he is helping him in some way right? He could be England's hero yes? That was it. On that spot America promised to himself and to England he would become that hero (And later doom us all in the future :D) He turned round the corner, still carrying the smaller man, he looked forward to the house awaiting his return, it drew nearer and nearer with each step, the gate to the garden opened as he approached it and he started his slow journey up the front path towards the old oak house.. He smiled a little, Home sweet home you know. America took a deep breath, here goes nothing. Wonder what England would say when he woke up...

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_Pleasure ... The opposite to pain... It hurts slightly but it makes you feel really good after awhile. Sometimes it's a bad pleasure or sometimes it's a good pleasure. Equally it makes you feel light as a feather. Why does it feel so good? Though sweet, sweet pleasure can be a sin, a sin even Angels commit. Pleasure... yeah something we all want. Share, as an act of love. Sometimes it can be romantic, like you're on your way to the starry, golden gates of heaven, a high you wish to never return from. Pleasure is a greed we all want, something we all treasure. It's worth more than anything; it comes in many shapes and forms. It shows true happiness for a person, to tell them that the eternal torture will end soon and that even the Angels will stop falling. That even death will be rid of the burden... Pleasure mostly always comes after that heart breaking pain._

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England groaned, opening his eyes slightly. Where was he? Wasn't he on the alleyway floor anymore? Was it all just a dream? ... No that defiantly happened ... though now he was coming to he recognised the room. Wait what! England bolted up from the bed sheets below his body, his head spinning as his green eyes darted around the room. Why was he here? The door opened. In through the door came the blonde haired boy, his uniform gone. All that remained was his dress shirt and trousers with boots. He still hadn't noticed that England was awake as his head was looking at the floor. England's eyes widen, it was him. Why was he here? Did he see what happened in the Alleyway? Urgh he probably thinks I'm disgusting. His mind was racing with those kinds of questions, trying desperately to calm his heart from beating from his chest. America looked up and his eyes widen. He saw in his bed the awoken English man. Oh god. He'd been dreading this. What would England do? What would he say? America tried to smile at him, sadly not achieving a brilliant grin. He walked to the foot of the bed, bringing his head up a little. He wanted to speak but for some odd reason his tongue was tied with in his mouth, a knot at the tip and a deep sickly feeling in his stomach. England just stared at him, his face half horrified and half relieved it was America. His fingers clenched into the bed sheets a little.

Silence ... a dead silence filled the room. The American and Brit just stared at each other, like it was another battle needing to be won, the gaze held for what felt like eternity. There was nothing between them, all that stopped them from any movement or any vocals was either pride, fear or that gut wrenching feeling. America was now twiddling his fingers, shifting his poor feet but he couldn't help it, his eyes fell to the floor, he knew it would be like this, England would never forgive him. England just stared at the young boy...no young man before him, he couldn't move, couldn't breathe. He felt the blood rush from his face, paling ever so quickly, his head became light, his eye's failing to keep an image in front of him. He felt sick.

"I-I'm sorry ..." Came a quiet American accent. It finally filled the room, echoing around to the brits ears. The brit tried hard to come to his senses, this was defiantly not a dream, and it couldn't be. England found his nerves, his muscles responded, his voice finding its way back to his throat. "America ... Please comes here." He tried to sound out nicely. It was rather deep and crackling since he hadn't used it in awhile, awhile being the time since he was raped and to this very point in time. The American did what he was told, feeling like a scolded child, so much for independence. He slowly approached the side of the bed, standing there, his head still low.

"America ... Look at me." The English accent was stern, but cracking slightly. America did as he was told, looking up into the beautiful forest green eyes he loved so much, the ones that made him want to be independent for so long. He closed his eyes, not being able to bear the pain written on the others. Why was this happening? Why to him? He could practically feel the green orbs boring into his skin, watching his every move. A soft voice came out of the blue, it was quiet, like a small mouse, but defiantly English, what was that it said?

"H-huh?" America opened his eyes again, staring at the blonde in front of him. The brit smiled a little repeating his words softly. "I said Thank You." His smiled dropped and he looked away from the American, wondering of the next words to be said, wait scratch that. England started to get out of the bed, not wanting to know what would happen next, because surely it would just make this much harder than it was. England looked down at himself, seeing his was no longer in his uniform ... America ... changed him ... he stared at the clothing, not noticing the body crawling over the bed, getting closer, making no noise, didn't want to frighten the rabbit.

America pounced on the unsuspecting brit, his broad arms wrapping round the elders waist, pulling him back into the warm American's body. England gasped, squeaking slightly, what was he doing? His eyes widen when he felt the others chest on his back, the head of the other man in his shoulder blade, his hair tickled his neck. England didn't want to admit it, but he knew that by the minute it was becoming more and more true. America really was no longer a little boy, he was an independent man, and much to the brits disgust he was attractive, handsome enough to make a blush spread across the English mans cheeks.

America knew what he was doing, he knew what he wanted to do, that's why he span the man before him around, standing in front of him, eyes staring into the others, inspecting his face slightly, he sighed, smiling a small genuine smile at the English man, his English man. That's when he made his move, leaning down slightly, cupping the others face in his broad fingers, kissing his lips ever so slightly. His breath came out, his blue eyes covering themselves. England's body moved on its own, grasping the cloth that covered the others forearms, pushing back into his soft lips, his body trembled slightly, tears dripping from his green eyes, which slowly shut down. How was this happening? Why? So many questions span around the brits head, but no matter what happened his grip on the American wouldn't ever lessen, he didn't want to let go, not again. America's hands moved slowly down the brit's slender neck, over the top of his small, feminine shoulders only to stop at his petit waist, pulling the brit closer to his body. His tongue prodded at the English lips, which let the beautiful voice flow out when it finally opened. England gasped at the tongue, allowing the younger nation to slide his wet muscle into the hot cavern. His tongue moved slowly over the walls of the newly found cave, feeling the soft sides before stroking over the others tongue. England used his tongue to push back slightly, hoping for dominance, but America's muscle was having none of it. They fought out a miniature war, American succeeding, smiling into to the kiss as he practically devoured the others mouth. England smiling back and letting his former colony take charge.

The need for air was too much for both nations, parting slightly. Both nations panted, opening their eyes a little, like something out of a fairy tale. America being the first to move, slowly leaning back, pulling the English man on top of him, his arms stayed gripped firmly round his waist, holding the smaller man down, the smile threatening to get bigger played on his slightly red cheeks. England made no signs of moving away from the man beneath him. He continued to smile a little, his eyes looked away from the blue crystals in front of his, his cheeks red as ever, and Blonde locks of hair covering over his own eyes. He couldn't look at the young man before him, his embarrassment continued to grow, he kept wishing this wasn't a dream. One strong American hand stroked his cheek, brushing the bangs from his forehead. Green orbs locked his Blue Crystals yet again, the intense stare , the ragged breathing, nothing could be more ... romantic, or would it be erotic. Both nations couldn't figure it out. Whatever it was, both nations were starting to grow hot. Very hot. This moment was way to perfect. Nothing could break it. No one knew where they were. This moment ... should last forever.

England felt the hand from his warm cheek shift, sliding off his cheek and down his red neck, fingers trailing sweetly along milky white skin. England's body shifted on its own, moving into the callous hands that roamed his body. American moist lips pressed gently against British land. England could only close his eyes and his breathing hitching a little when the lips began to move gently down his neck. England shivered a little, jaw becoming weak. He soon began to feel himself fall to the right as America shifted slowly on the bed, lips still pressed to his neck as he pushed his former charge over and back onto the sheets, looming over his hot body. This was defiantly a sight to see. America looked over the smaller man, drinking up the sight of the panting and flustered brit. Half opened eyes stared back, lust stricken orbs, the slight panting of his slightly now exposed chest, mouth hung open and of course, the tinted red cheeks. The taller nation bent down and kissed at the others neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. A mewl of some sort was heard from above him, a soft gentle gasp followed when the nation continued down his neck slowly, stopping at his collar bone. He didn't look up to the smaller nation, no, instead he let his teeth sink into the reddening flesh, earning another gasp from above. He smiled a little, enjoying the sweet noises the brit made, he needed to hear more of them, and just another one wouldn't hurt right?

England threw his head back a little, gasping again when he felt a wet muscle lick over his collar. His body arched on its own, squirming a little under the wet sloppy kisses travelling down his chest. His voice escaped past his lips on its own, panting increasing when he felt soft skin rub over his harden nipples. England's back arched a little, rising from the bed, something pulling at his chest. America smirked, the sight he saw before him was very arousing, he never knew how much his former charge could drive him bat-shit insane. He decided to lean down onto the pale chest again, kissing over the small nub, earning another mewl from those soft lips. England couldn't believe this was happening to him, especially with the one boy ... no man, he had loved and cared for, but this ... this act of pleasure was taking this to a whole new level. Unlocking the hidden feelings that were trapped away within the older nation. He gasped loudly, body moving on its own, leaning up further towards the warm cavern, responding well to the wet muscle that flicked over his sensitive nubs, when he night shirt was removed was a mystery to even him. This pleasure, this sweet pleasure, given to him from the blonde and his body was actually being generous to the blonde who broke, yet still owned his heart. That blonde was now smiling, the whole site of his former guardian was too beautiful, and maybe the most beautiful sight his eyes will ever see.

He let his mouth un-clamp it's self from the red nub, kissing it once as an apology, before he slowly started to kiss down the milky skin. Enjoying the small gasps of pleasure radiating off the former empire, who was currently clinging to the bed sheets, twisting them one way then the other, writhe ring under the larger male. His lips continued down the showing ribs and thin stomach till they met the hem of the others bottoms, which hung loosely at the scrawny frame. He was so malnourished, America did blame himself, and the just finished war had taken its toll on England then. The younger nation didn't really think he could feel so much guilt but somehow he felt so much. America looked up at his former charge. His eyes hurt in more ways than one. The green forest looked back at him, and for a second. America saw the small smile he saw when he was little. The milky river of flesh then began to curve upwards as shaky elbows became pillars of support. Blue eyes looked upwards, across the milky cream chest, the thinned neck and onto the picture perfect face of England. England smiled down at him, hair slightly damp from the sweet sweat that flowed from his skin. His nimble, trembling fingers gently stroked through the ash blonde hair; travelled down the sun-kissed cheeks to rest under the broad chin.

"What's wrong?" His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but even the obnoxious American could hear it. A question that even America couldn't answer, because he didn't know what was wrong. "We can stop if you're regretting this." This was something he didn't want to hear and he would never let it touch his ears again. He smiled a little, his blue eyes gleaming.

"I wouldn't stop if the world was coming to an end England." England noticed how husky and deep that little boy's voice had gotten. It could have brought pains to his heart for reminding him of the war that had ended not only a day ago. But instead he felt such pride, for his little boy was not his brother, but his hopefully to be lover, something England couldn't have wanted more. Pride that someone he brought up had achieved such greatness, even if it meant breaking his beating muscle.

His eyes closed as he smiled a little more, leaning forwards to place his lips carefully onto the American's, moving apart slowly with the others. America responded with moving his lips against England's, before slowly sliding his tongue back in, rubbing it over the others slippery muscle. He pushed himself back up, laying the smaller man back onto the bed. Snake like arms wrapped round the slim neck, pulling the American down onto the British land. Fingers laced between the dark blonde locks. Both eyes were now closed shut lightly, both enjoying the taste of each other's inner skins, rubbing softly together. The bigger American land grinded down from the hips, pushing up against his English uke, letting him know how happy Florida was to see him. England however could only respond to the state with a blush and a gasp as the long, thick and harden flesh stroked against his own pulsing penis.

Nimble hands removed themselves from the broad and slightly sweating neck, trailing a new direction down the Americans muscular back, grabbing the fraying ends of the bo-mans! Yes mans shirt, giving it a few tugs and whining slightly as the annoying thing broke all the flesh to flesh contact. America, as obnoxious as he can, seemed to have got the message as he sat back up, gripping the hem of his shirt before lifting it over his head. Tossing it to one side of the room, he leant back down, pecking the others lips slightly. England smiled and admired the stronger built body above him, his fingers tracing softly down the tanned skin. Thumb rubbing over a pink nipple lightly, earning himself a small gasp from the stronger man. So he continued to do this, over and over. Rubbing slowly over the tender nubs, in slow circles.

The American man then took action and grasped the Englishman's hips in his hands, holding the hips still, pulling it to his own broader ones and grinding both together, a feral growl coming from his lips. Slow, powerful, circling hips, pushed together, attempting to almost devour each other. Electrical pleasure ran throughout the blood of both nations, pumping the beating drums within, tempting them to get faster and faster with the steady rhythm. And even if God's rule said to not give into temptation. This is one rule that went right out the window, along with any consequences and regrets both men had because the sexual tension was getting fiery between the pair. How each nation teases the others body, groping, kissing, licking and grinding against each other. It was something both had dreamed about for years yet neither had to courage within to admit the selfish desires and fantasies both had for each other.

The hand of the younger boy slid its way past the hips and sliding the thin material that covered the lower half of his former guardian, taking into account the faint blush that spread across his cheeks. America could only smile as he palmed the slightly erected member. England gasped like a virgin, shivering in anticipation for what would come to him soon. American fingers wrapped tenderly around the lengths body, smoothing the soft skin. England shuddered, enjoying the sweet attention America was giving him. He could feel the vibrations of a deep agonising moan in his throat, crawling its way to freedom. Little did England know that the moan did escape and was once again caught in the American's ear. He smirked and stroked it again, this time adding a little more pressure. He got the same reaction, the same sweet reaction. He had to hear more of those delicious moans, like a druggie on heroin, he needed this high. England, however, was high. The pleasure that jolted through him got him gasping for more. More of the movements that were making him feel so good. He couldn't remember the last time he was in utter ecstasy. His back arched away from the burning bed, up into the muscular chest of the boy.

One warm hand slid from the poor erection, to trace loving circles up the formers back, feeling the smooth milky skin beneath his fingertips. America could feel his trousers grow tighter, restraining his harden length and suffocating it as it pushed at the blockage for breath. Green eyes opened slightly, smiling at the warm circles being drawn on his back, the soft touch comforted him. America smiled at him, leaning down and pecking his lips softly. The older nation found his hands sliding around the younger's neck again, pulling him down to mesh their lips together. His hips buckled up a little. Passing over the Americans needy; clothed erection, causing a low groan to rumble from his toned chest. England shivered slightly, the noise making him more giddy and excited. America's hips pushed down onto the Englishman's, rubbing in slow sensual circles. Groans of pleasure rose like a heavenly choir from them both, like music to both ears.

Slight pants and noises of pleasure filled the air as the pelvis of on American grounded rashly into the pelvis of the man below him. God he could have came there and then. His hand moved from the Englishman's back, feeling a want and need towards England grow stronger. He didn't want to waste anymore time. He had to take this man. His England. Now and then. The callous hand skimmed back down the back, trailing over the scrawny hips of his former guardian. It soon made its way to his trousers, fumbling with the stupid belt that would not let go. He finally managed to get that stupid snake like creature off his hips, pulling the zipper down and letting his member fall out, gasping for sweet breath. England let out a gasp when he saw the thick and harden member of the younger nation. When had it gotten that big he would never knew. But I think it finally clicked that America was no longer that boy, the one England had seen grow into this strong man.

America became a little red, feeling the gaze on his cock. The green eyes soon stopped gawking though, as the slide up the Americans body, cheeks deep red. This only became deeper as the American pulled off the pyjama bottoms, letting the English erection stand tall and proud. Arthur gasped, wanting to close his legs, but America's body prevented that completely. America gazed down at the erection, a smirk slowly crept up onto his face. His hand rubbed up the length, earning him a short gasp from the now trembling older nation. Pre-cum spewed out the head of the length, slowly, trailing a little down the shaft. England trembled with excitement, gasping at each stroke that was given to him, back lifting his hips in closer to the offending hand that teased him thoroughly.

England's fingers trembled slightly, as they reached out to hold the Americans face. He looked into the blue orbs, emitting rays of want and need to the blonde. England smiled up at him, pulling the younger's face down for a little kiss, fingers sliding past the redden cheeks, down the neck and shoulders, pulling one of his hands up. Both nations stared at the difference between their hands; America's noticeably larger than England's. England smiled a little "You've grown so much..."

America smiled a little, leaning down and bringing their lips together again. "Only because of you" He murmured, blushing when England brought three of the fingers, which were connected to the American, and slid them into his mouth. A delicate tongue swept over the limbs, coating them with a thick layer of saliva. America groaned slightly, the feeling causing his brain to explode with images.

The fingers were withdrawn from the British mouth; a string was the only thing keeping them connected. It sunk low, before breaking and falling apart. America smirked slightly, licking up the slimy trail, one of his now coated fingers were gently pushing into the brits puckered entrance. England hissed slightly, even if he was only rape some time ago, it hurt from the rough treatment he suffered before. America stopped, kissing his cheek and muttering apologises into the smaller ear. Slowly sinking it into the warm cavern. Arthur gradually started to relax, letting the finger move in and out. He only hissed again when another finger was added, stretching his tight hole wider. America could feel himself becoming more aroused at the sight of England, his ever growing need to be inside the brit was getting stronger and stronger and his patience wearing thinner and thinner. Seriously, all America's self control was flying out the window quicker than a zebra running from a predator. Much to his surprise though, it was the trembling brit beneath him that pulled him down, pushing their lips together and kissing him while moaning a "Put it in." through his lips and down his throat where is nested in his stomach. America would have swore to god he was going to cum there and then if he wasn't that need to be in the empire nation.

Quicker than lightening, America was showing his throbbing hard cock its way to the not-so-puckered entrance. A missile on a mission, tracking down its target. It was soon sinking into the still tight entrance, a gasping brit closing his eyes tight as a pleasurable pain shot up his spine. England wasn't the only one to wince. The Americans sharp ears soon tuned into the painful gasp, stopping with just the head in, yet he couldn't help the groan emit from his neck. Arthur panted a little, the feeling of completion swarmed over him as the man pushed further into his body, the feeling of being filled was indescribable. All the brit knew is that he wanted more, more of this glorious feeling. America buried his red face into his new found lovers neck, breath shaking slightly. He suddenly felt the brit moving against his dick slowly, soon getting the message to move his arse. America chuckled slightly, loving how needy his former guardian was being as he slowly started to move his hips away from the brit, before snapping them back in place.

The pace was slow; sensual with an emotion of love. Both nations wanted to be like this forever, never to be parted. But the need, the pleasure building between them was becoming an agonising need. America's hips just had to move faster, he wanted more of that friction, more of the warmth that he could only get from the brit. England could only moan out loudly when he felt the speed increase, his voice forever free and now calling out the others name in complete ecstasy. Their hot, sweating bodies in sync, back and forth, back and forth. Over and Over again, like a song being replayed. The panting vocals mingled in with the steady beat, creating a tune of perfection. The brit gasped, moaned and trembled under the hot American whose hips pushed in with great power and a steady pace. England couldn't remember the last time he felt such pleasure knocking within his body; he only knew that it was his beloved America giving it to him. He rocked his hips back into the American's steady pace, begging him to get faster and faster. America could only comply, sitting up a little and grabbing the brits hips, gripping them a little tightly as he began to speed up his thrusts.

The sound of skin against skin filled the old house. Moans echoed along the corridors and out through the windows, letting the wildlife know that nature was calling them. Like a siren, letting people know that the time for war was over, and it was now a time for love and sweet celebration. England could only pant and moan louder and louder, feeling his stomach knotting up. He closed his eyes, images of the hot love between the nations appeared, scattering through his brain. He groaned, not realising his request for the taller to go harder has slipped into view, catching the sky blue eyes who could only push himself in deeper. The brits eyes shone white, knowing full on that his sweet spot was hit. His voice moaned louder, gasping at the end. America caught the message, angling his hips to knock that spot each and every thrust, driving harder and faster into the brit. His hands now clenched into the sheets on either side of England's flustered face as he continued to abuse the sweet spot.

Neither could put this act into words. The feeling, the movements were just so perfect, like a well rehearsed play. But every play comes to an end and both nations could feel the tightening in their stomachs. The climax of the show drawing closer and closer. The movements quickened, becoming harder and driving in deeper. The sweet noise of skin slapping against skin rang out and mingled with the gasping voices. Sweat formed and dripped down their bodies as they worked harder and harder, wanting to reach the climax. England dug his nails into the others back, creating an effect of desire and need while America bit into his shoulder, showing his ravishing lust for the other.

England couldn't contain it any longer, the wild beast wanted to be set free. His eyes flashed white lightening. His voice stopped in his throat. Body jolting forward into his lover as his dick twitched, spilling his creamy liquids over their stomachs. America moaned when the walls around him tighten, so close to finish, if only he could reach. A couple of more thrusts and it hit him, like a heavenly wave. His voice moaned low into the other nations shoulder as his seed spilled into and out of the tighten hole. America continued to thrust a little, helping England and himself ride out those sweet orgasms.

Heavy panting filled the silent, flowing out into the night. Both nations clung to each other, drenching in sweat; exhausted from the pleasurable deed they performed. America looked up, searching for those forest green eyes, which were closed. He stared at him, a small smile hidden in his eye. Fingers shaking as he clutched the others chin. England immediately opened his eyes, blushing hard and staring back. "I love you England, I always have. Can you see it now?" The taller asked him softly, the smile now spreading to his face. England only looked up at him, smiling a little himself "Oh America..." he felt tears in his eyes as he pulled him down, kissing him gently, moulding them together again. "I love you too." He spoke silently, the moment only being perfect for the pair of them.

_Sex. Only painful when heart broke, torn down and forced into an act that's shared between two who love each other. One isn't held lovingly, or kissed gently. Only provided with the rough thrusting of a needy asshole, one who will throw you away like yesterdays trash, making you feel like a worthless slut. Sex. Only pleasure when shared with someone you love, unforced and softening. One needs pain to feel pleasure, like a chain, one activates the next. How can you feel such pleasure filled with love, if one hasn't been hurt enough to want love?  
I leave you now, after showing you the tale of two nations, with a question on your hands. Sex... Pain or Pleasure? Which one do you think?_

**GAH OMG IM FINALLY FINISHED! QwQ  
Fav, Review anything! show your friends! 2 1/2 years writing this! omg! I can't believe it's done ... Shit I feel empty. Any negative reviews will be ignored since I'm pretty proud of this. **

**Anyway you may disagree on some stuff but I really didn't know what I was writing. So please R&R.**


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